


Coffee and Apricots

by mightypretty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Modern Era, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightypretty/pseuds/mightypretty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When everything goes wrong on the biggest night of the year, sometimes it’s the unlikeliest partnerships that can bring the sweetest rewards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and Apricots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/gifts).



> For Daroh: I took your prompt of New Year's Eve kiss and ran with it, it was a lot of fun to write so I hope this little ficlet brings you some joy over the Christmas holidays!.  
> Thanks to my dearest beta V for the hand-holding and speedy check - any remaining errors are undoubtedly down to moi.  
> Enjoy!

As far as parties went it was pretty fair to say this was a lavish one. There were twelve chandeliers lined along the ceiling, each blasting sparkled rays across the marbled floor. The men were all in tuxes, the ladies in gowns that skimmed the tiles and jewels that glistened just as brightly as their teeth. A large Christmas tree was the focal point of the room, decked with golds and purples, christened at the top with a gigantic star.

James Blunt was even tinkering out a tune on the piano in the corner.

Except this wasn’t just a party, it was a _ball_ ; A New Year’s Eve ball to be precise, one which had an exclusive guest list that could otherwise be named ‘anyone within the W1 postcode.’

Merlin feels incredibly like Cinderella; under-dressed, out of place and anxiously awaiting midnight when he can go home – or 2am in this instance. He tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves bringing them further over his hands.

“Would you stop fidgeting,” Gwen hisses, turning her attention back to the man in front of her with pursed lips and handing him a card.

“I think Will changed the fabric softener again, it’s all itchy.” Merlin mumbles, tucking the tail of his shirt back into his trousers.

Gwen spins on her stool to face him; her eyes warm with a well-versed put upon smile, “Now you know that’s not true. Neither of you boys have ever set foot in a supermarket.” Merlin sticks his tongue out and collapses back onto the low-chair beside her. “You were the one who asked me to find you work tonight,” she reminds him.

“I thought it’d be better than sitting on the couch by myself eating ice-cream and binge-watching The Hour...” He stops and sits forward in his chair, “Oh God, why did I think that? That sounds amazing. Can I go home?” Merlin whines, dropping his chin on her knees.

Gwen laughs and strokes his hair. “Afraid not mister, you need the money. Well, I need the money, you owe me rent. Plus, we’re having fun, right?”

“Ah yes, serving posh rich wankers by being their glorified butlers – it’s a hoot a minute.”

A clearing cough sounds beside them and Gwen stands so fast she drops Merlin’s head from her lap with a jarring crick of his neck. “Sorry Sir, didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

The gentleman murmurs something Merlin can’t quite hear as he rubs his jaw with a frown. Gwen presses a short fur jacket into his chest and he silently slips it onto a hanger, passing her the corresponding card.

“Make sure this is hung straight – it’s cashmere and will crease terribly otherwise.”

Merlin rolls his eyes as he looks at the man; tall, blonde, nice shoulders and eyes that really had no right being that blue. He was from money, clearly, if the massive Rolex on his wrist wasn’t a dead giveaway. He’s dressed in a tux (as is everyone) but somehow he manages to stand out, there’s something almost regal about him; probably an arrogant arse. Merlin imagines he’d be good in the sack, but then his type always were.

Gwen smiles politely and takes his coat but Merlin snatches it off her before she has a chance to answer.

“I’m afraid there are no hangers left.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, we’re all out. I’m just creating a big coat shag-pile that I’m going to jump and nap on later. That won’t be a problem will it?”

Merlin delights in the way the man’s eyes widen and he counts the seconds it takes for that look to turn from confusion-to-indignation-to-fury. It’s eight.

“What’s your name? I have the right mind to—”

“Please, ignore him,” Gwen chimes up, almost pushing Merlin as far back into the closet as possible, “that’s his warped sense of humour. We’ll get it seen to right away.”

“My coat or his mental issues?”

Gwen titters out a nervous laugh and mutters “both,” taking the corresponding card and handing it over. Merlin realises the man is still watching him but the anger in his eyes has given way to something deeper, inquisitive. He lifts the side of his mouth in a smirk and he’s sure the man is about to say something else before he’s interrupted.

“Arthur dear, come along. You have the whole night to make enemies.”

Arthur turns reluctantly from the cloakroom without another word and faces his sister with a heavy sigh. “Less than five minutes we’ve been here and I already want to leave.”

Morgana offers a raised hand, almost in apology, to the two young workers before looping her arm through her brother’s and leading him down the stair-case to the main floor. “Now where’s your holiday spirit? Peace and good-will to all men, etcetera etcetera.”

“Come off it, you don’t buy that guff.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Morgana says, bringing her free hand to brush a loose strand of hair out of her face, “but at least get me drunk if I have to cope with your mopey arse all night.” She flags down the nearest waiter, taking a proffered flute of champagne and gulping it down in one.

“Yes thanks, I’d love one.” Arthur says dryly.

Morgana rolls her eyes, placing her now empty glass back on the tray and picking up two more. She passes one to Arthur and clinks his glass, “chin-chin.”

Arthur sips at his slowly. He’s definitely going to need to be drunk for this, but he doesn’t need the rip-roaring hangover the following day thank you very much. He watches as Morgana finishes and picks up her third glass sharing a wave over the tops of heads to a friend who’s caught her eye.

“It’s alright for you to have a jolly old time; father’s not trying to marry you off.”

Morgana laughs, “He wouldn’t dare!”  

“I don’t think anyone would.” Arthur raises his eyebrows and scans the room himself. “Besides, what would he say if he knew you and his chief financial-advisor were hooking up?”

“I’m sure he couldn’t care less.” Morgana shrugs, she acts flippant but there’s an edge to her voice that bites at the words. “You see who Uther’s talking to now.” Arthur follows her eye-line to spot his father in discussion with another older gentleman.

“It’s Mithian Rodor’s father.” Morgana explains. She pats Arthur’s shoulder as he groans and drops his head. Mithian has been the number one on Uther’s suitor list for the past six months. She was a lovely girl; pretty and sweet with a wicked sense of humour, but his wife? That was one adjective too far. He quickly downs the rest of his champagne and places the empty flute on the small table next to them. Morgana flashes a rueful grin and plucks two glasses from an aloft tray zipping past, handing them both to Arthur. “I think you’ll need these,” she tells him, swanning off into the crowd.

Arthur looks at them wearily before dejectedly taking a massive swig, the champagne hitting the back of his throat with an acidic burn.

Screw the hangover.

 

\--

 

He’s lost count of the number of drinks he’s had. Somewhere after the sixth he stopped keeping track. Morgana had yet to resurface and instead he was left fending the night with Gwaine, so really he could be on his twentieth with that kind of influence.

Arthur tries to keep up with his friend’s conversation, really he does, but alcohol makes the Irishman’s tongue looser and if he struggles to understand him normally, it’s nigh on impossible now. He flicks through old photographs on his phone, nodding and aahing in places that fit, but in reality slipping further into morose memories with each slide of his thumb.

He’s too slow to react when Morgana looms over his shoulder and plucks his phone from his grasp.

“What are you doing?”

“I am saving you from your poor life choices,” she sing-songs, Leon in tow who simply lifts his hands in silent sympathy.

“I wasn’t going to text him,” Arthur pouts, turning to Gwaine for back-up.

“I’m not arguing with your sister mate” he replies, “I’m rather fond of my balls.”

Morgana throws a wink in Gwaine’s direction, clicking her acrylic nails on the case of Arthur’s phone as she slips it into her bag. “Either way, Moet and WhatsApp do not a winning formula make. Oh dear,” she breathes, “Looks like daddy dear has rumbled you.” They all turn to find Uther speaking to a petite blonde woman and pointing in their direction, her buxom chest barely concealed in a low dipped gown.

“Isn’t that Vivian Olaf?” Leon asks.

Arthur had managed to go one hour without drawing the attention of his father. It’s a high-risk game because as soon as he’s spotted the jig is up. He’d be brought in to speak to hedge-funders, business moguls, all with one thing in common, single daughters. Daddy’s little darlings, all waiting to be married off to the soon-to-be youngest serving silk of the Queen’s Counsel.

“Oh God, he’s sending her over. “ Arthur growls.

“Don’t worry princess; I’m more than happy to take one for the team.” Gwaine flashes them a grin as he turns, hair flapping behind him – the very definition of swashbuckling as he saunters towards the blonde. He catches Vivian’s hand and brings it to his lips, reducing her into a giggling mess as expected.

Morgana scrunches her nose in disgust.

Uther is glaring at them across the room and in the distance Arthur can make out James Blunt starting his third rendition of ‘You’re Beautiful’ and that’s pretty much his breaking point.

“I need some fresh air.” Arthur runs his fingers around the inside of his collar. He hands his glass to Morgana and turns to head towards the balcony on the far side of the room.

“Not out there he’ll find you.” Leon hisses, grabbing Arthur’s arm.

“Oh for Christ sake I’m hiding from my father not the sodding mafia.”

Leon ignores him and begins weaving them through the crowd, coming across a side entrance and pushing him through. “This leads back to the elevators, head down to the main entrance. Uther wouldn’t bother going down 30 floors to find you.” Arthur smiles at his best friend.

“Give me fifteen minutes; I’ll be back by midnight to plant a smacker right on your lips.”

“You’ll have Morgana to answer to.” Leon calls after him, Arthur fires a two finger salute as he turns the corner towards the lobby.

“We’re sorry ladies and gentlemen we’re experiencing a slight technical problem with the elevator, it should be up and running soon.” A young man, clearly out of his depth is trying to cajole a number of irritated people gathering.

Arthur rubs the back of his neck with frustration. He’s about to give up and head back inside – this night was always going to be dreadful, why not throw Uther’s disappointed lecturing into the mix –when he spots the neon green glow of an exit sign. He looks around before pushing the fire door open, ‘roof two flights up’ is lettered on the facing wall, an arrow directing the way. A draft runs through the stairwell and the waft of cool breeze draws Arthur upwards.

He takes the steps two at a time and is about to push the door at the top open until something hits his foot and sends him stumbling through.

He hears a questioning _“hello?”_ then a “ _wait!”_ as he rights himself in time and looks down toward the offending article at his feet. Who leaves a bloody brick lying around? The soft click behind him doesn’t register until that voice sounds again, “Oh you bloody prat!”

“You!” Arthur exclaims; it’s the guy from earlier, the cloak room guy, the guy who had been an utter jerk to him. Wait, prat?

“Oh I might have guessed,” Merlin groans from his perch. He’s sat atop an air-vent in the corner, lit cigarette dangling in his right hand. With a flick of his wrist he points behind Arthur, “Well done Einstein, you’ve locked us up here.”

Arthur’s about to go on the counter, a few choice names hanging off the tip of his tongue when it dawns.

“Wait…are you serious?” he spins on his heel and tries to find a solution, but it’s clear. There’s no handle. The door is sealed tightly shut and there’s No. Sodding. Handle. He lets out a frustrated grunt as he kicks at the door.

“You could help.” He calls over, scanning the vicinity for any way of escape. Surely they have some sort of back-up plan for this kind of thing?

“How? I’m not bloody Paul Daniels.”

“No, much more Debbie McGee. “

The cool air picks up around them and Merlin draws his eyebrows together as he jumps down from the vent. Arthur’s still focused on the steel door, and whilst yes, Merlin will admit to initially finding him attractive the only emotion flooding to the surface right now was pure, unconstrained frustration.

“What are you even doing up here anyway?” he asks.

“I imagine you’re not exactly allowed up here either.” Arthur replies. And fine, he’s got Merlin on that one.

“Needed a smoke and the lift was out. “

“Same, “Arthur lashes a foot at the door again, as if a chance of escape would miraculously appear. “Well, about the lift. I don’t smoke anymore – the whole killing you thing doesn’t really work for me.”

“Got to die of something right?”

He proffers the cigarette; watches Arthur debate it for a moment before shaking his head. Merlin shrugs; takes a final drag and flicks it on the ground, stubbing it out with his heel. “So you left your swanky party because…? I’m pretty sure there’s a rather glitzy balcony down there if you needed some air. I was here when they were setting it up, fairy lights and everything. Very bourgeois-y.”

Arthur keeps silent as Merlin walks around him and hops up on the building ledge. His stomach drops.

“Yup, there you go,” Merlin calls, hovering over the edge to spot the spill of people a few floors below, “balcony right there.”

“Get down you idiot!”

Merlin rolls his eyes but hops back off the lip of the building. “Afraid of heights?”

“No. I’m perfectly fine with them,” Arthur fusses with his suit jacket, stepping further into the centre of the rooftop. “As long as there are walls and glass or some form of safety rail.”

“Your concern is touching.“

“I simply don’t’ want to be the focal point of a murder investigation that’s all. It’d ruin my reputation.”

“And we wouldn’t want that would we.”

Arthur turns his back and fishes through his pockets for his phone; almost comically slapping his forehead when it dawns.

“Morgana,” he grits out.

“Hmm?”

“Phone. Where’s your phone?”

“I’m working. Not allowed phones.”

“Yet you have smokes?”

Merlin scoffs. “Obviously.” Arthur throws up his hands with a growl.

“We’re doomed.”

“Slightly over dramatic.”

“So we’re stuck up here?”

“Looks that way.”

“All night?”

“Doubtful.” Merlin reasons, head cocked.

“It’s New Year’s Eve who’s going to look for us up here?”

“Blimey, you posh boys do like the theatrics.”

Arthur pouts. “We could shout for help,” he heads towards the edge of the roof, casting a cautionary glance over the top. “Someone’s bound to hear us below.”

“Over the dulcet tones of James Blunt? Good luck.”

“What other smart ideas do you have?”

“Look, Gwen who I’m working with, knows I’ve popped off to have a smoke. I’m due back in,” he checks his watch, “fifteen minutes. Heavens knows she won’t let me get away without working the rest of the shift. She’ll figure it out. She’ll find us. We’ll survive. Panic averted.” Merlin punctuates each point with a step towards him. “Now, will you take a cigarette already? “

Arthur struggles to find a scathing response, so he does. Holding his breath as he slips the cigarette between his teeth, Merlin steps close to light it for him, invading his space in a whirl of tobacco smoke. It hits the back of his throat, an old familiarity that still makes him cough on the first inhale.

He watches Merlin chuckle as he takes up his seat again on the air-vent, the steel top groans as Arthur joins him. They sit side by side, facing out towards the ink painted sky, lights flutter across the landscape and in the near distance Big Ben’s clock face gleams. Merlin takes the cigarette from Arthur’s fingers and brings it to his own lips, closing his eyes as clouds of ringlets dissipate before him.

“It’s baltic up here. Are you not cold?” Arthur asks. The white shirt of Merlin’s uniform has come untucked from his trousers and billows across his back with every sharp gust of wind.

“Warm hands, cold heart” Merlin says with a strained grin but his ears are turning white whilst the tip of his nose grows a deep shade of red. Arthur wants to offer him his dinner jacket but knows the stubborn arse would never accept it. “You drank a lot tonight.” Merlin changes the subject and Arthur raises an eyebrow at the statement.

“You were watching me?”

Merlin shrugs. “You’d pissed me off, I wanted to keep tabs. See if you’d make an even bigger prat of yourself.” He knocks his shoulder against Arthur’s, a teasing smile lighting his face. Its clichéd to say a spark of energy passed between them at the contact but they both felt something that draws their eyes to meet.

“And?”

Merlin doesn’t know how to answer straight away. Flustered he drops his gaze and focuses in on the seam on Arthur’s trousers. It runs from ankle to knee along the length of his thigh. “Well you got us locked up here for a start.”  


Arthur barks out a laugh, low and deep. “True. It hasn’t been my night.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Merlin” he offers his hand. It feels like an eternity of waiting before it’s enveloped in a warm return.

“Arthur.”

“So, Arthur,” Merlin rolls the name around his tongue. “Now we’ve been fully acquainted, I have to ask. Why are you here? Not here, the roof obviously, I mean—you clearly don’t look like you want to be at this party.”

It takes a moment for Arthur to respond. He weighs-up what exactly he wants to say because is it really that obvious? He’d always thought he was good at it, not lying as such but masking. Allowing people to see what he wanted them to see. It unnerved him that a stranger he had barely met for ten minutes could so easily see past it. He debated reflecting again, but then what was the point? “My father wants me to marry.”

“Oh, right.” The abruptness of his response takes Merlin by surprise. “Doesn’t every family want that for their children?”

“Yeah, well, he’s a bit more forceful on the matter than most.”

Merlin doesn’t push, just waits for Arthur to continue. “Uther’s of the generation where a successful marriage is built on stature and name, not necessarily love.”

“He can’t expect you to just marry whomever he chooses.”

“You haven’t met my father.” Arthur snorts. The relationship Uther held with his children would be a psychologists dream. Tough love and a strong sense of self-will were his teaching tools. He’s not sure why he’s about to say this. To this scrawny waif of a boy, because he really is just a boy, 19, 20 at most, but damn it he’s beautiful. Arthur looks up to find Merlin already watching intently. He holds his gaze as he takes a shaky breath and really focuses on his next set of words. “It’s kind of impossible for me to marry anyone he chooses for love… when he continues to pick women.”

If there is a reaction it barely registers. “Does he know?” Merlin asks instead and Arthur sits back and blinks. Breaks this weird trance they’d found themselves in and allows the winter London air to fill his lungs.

“Of course, but he’s chosen to see it as something inconsequential.”

“He does know what century we’re living in right?”

“Sometimes I wonder.”                                                    

“My mum bought me a rainbow colour backpack when I came out.”

Arthur lets out a sharp burst of laughter.

“I was eleven.” Merlin grins, “I think on some level she’d always known. I used to have a thing for Aladdin. I watched it every single night before bed; used to say it was for the songs or that I loved the magic but really it was his abs. That dude was one hot animated character.”

Arthur’s still chuckling, shaking his head at the random spout of nonsense coming from the man next to him. Usually such people frustrate him – he has no time for ramblers when he wants to get to the point, but with Merlin it’s endearing. He finds himself wondering what other endearing qualities there are to discover. “Always had a thing for Tarzan myself.”

“Oh really, long hair was it?”

“Muscles. I—I used to have a thing for muscles.”

“Used to,” Merlin repeats softly, he can sense the heaviness in the words and pushes Arthur a little bit further by asking, “recent break up?”

“Six months ago.”

“Must have meant a lot then, if you’re still feeling…feelings.” Merlin tails off uselessly. The distance between them has shrunk to the point where their thighs are pressed neatly together. Arthur can feel the warmth of Merlin’s body seared right along his side. It’s disarming.

“Kind of. Yeah.” Arthur crosses his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. “He— he was nice. Just a truly good guy and that’s pretty rare.”

Merlin nods in understanding.

“How did it end?”

“Let’s say I _wasn’t_ a truly good guy…This really isn’t the type of conversation to be having on the 32 nd floor of a building.”

Merlin laughs; an honest, chest bursting laugh. It’s infectious. And suddenly Arthur’s joining in and the laughter echoes off both of them and into the night.

“I want to open an ice-cream shop.”

“What?” Arthur’s still gasping for air as he turns, their shoulders brushing. Merlin has the knack to flip any conversation on its head.

“I love ice-cream. Always have but I’m lactose intolerant. Mum didn’t find that out until I was eight. I used to get sick every time I used to eat it; of course she just used to think I’d gorged myself silly and was suffering from a sugar coma. I was devastated when I found out. I cried every time we drove past McDonalds, I bloody love McFlurries.”

“Why on earth would you want to open a shop then?”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to do something crazy? Something that is clearly wrong and against everything you know you should be doing but then there’s a voice right there saying maybe, it’ll work. That just maybe this could be the best decision you’ve ever made?”

“You got all that from ice-cream?” Arthur lifts a brow.

“When a passion calls you can’t ignore it.”

“And it won’t torture you? Being around ice-cream all day and not being able to eat it.”

“We’d cater for all the misfit needs. Dairy-free, vegan, unusual flavour combinations.”

“Such as?”

“My personal favourite,” Merlin twists to face Arthur, palms slapping his thighs in a mini-drumroll. “Coffee and apricot.”

Arthur almost gags. “That will not go.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Who in their right mind would try it?”

Arthur shouldn’t have asked, judging by the blinding grin on Merlin’s face. He rolls his eyes and turns to mimic Merlin’s position, drawing his leg under his body so they’re facing each other head on.

“Sometimes it’s the unlikeliest partnerships that can bring the sweetest rewards.”

It’s cheesy as fuck. Stupid really but Arthur is enamoured. Captivated. Totally and royally bollocksed. Merlin is still looking at him with those blinding blue eyes and a smile that stretches from ear to ridiculous ear. He’s not his usual type. Not sure if _anyone_ could put up with Merlin’s eccentric nuances actually, but damn it his whole body was craving to try.

“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Shrieks of laughter shatter the stillness with a cacophony of party poppers bursting below. Arthur looks up towards Big Ben startled and finds there is only a minute to go until the clock strikes midnight. “It’s starting.” He muses. Merlin follows his movement and Arthur’s provided with a view of his profile. A long expanse of ivory pale skin and tufts of black hair curling at the nape of his neck. Arthur’s mouth goes dry. “I should apologise. It’s my fault you’re stuck up here.”

“And I’d so much rather be down in that shoe cupboard.” Merlin teases.

Arthur smiles softly, eyes focussed on his fingers twisting the silver band on his thumb; Thinking. Deliberating.

Merlin watches his uneasiness with an ache in his stomach. Yes he’s attracted to Arthur, Christ, who wouldn’t be, but there’s more lying beneath the surface that makes him yearn. Yet, here they are, in this ridiculous situation and Arthur looks as dejected as can be that he’s sharing this seminal moment trapped on a rooftop with him.

“I bet you wish you were down there with your friends.”

**_10, 9, 8…_ **

“I don’t.” Arthur replies.

“Oh.”

**_7, 6, 5…_ **

“Happy New Year Merlin.”

**_4, 3, 2…_ **

“Happy New Ye—“

The words fall into Arthur’s mouth as he slides his hand along Merlin’s jaw and draws him into a slow kiss. Its patient, gentle, a barely there meeting of lips and as Arthur rubs his nose along the side of Merlin’s it all feels so painfully important somehow.

That sensation gnaws at Merlin’s stomach as he brings both hands to twine into golden hair. It unsettles him. What this means, how significant it feels. He knows he wants Arthur, to keep kissing him. So that’s what he does. Dragging his teeth along Arthur’s bottom lip, he moans around the plump flesh before angling his head to sweep back in. Each kiss he sucks harder presses deeper until Arthur’s thumb draws his mouth open.

Then it grows into something else. Something hotter, Merlin’s tongue sweeps the top of his palate and suddenly it get messier. Heavy pants fall between gasps for air as Arthur clutches at the thin fabric of Merlin’s shirt until it’s balled in his palm.

“So…hot” Arthur mouths against Merlin’s cheekbone, lips lazy but refusing to leave Merlin’s skin. He begins a sloppy trail towards his collarbone, nosing at the buttons that get in his way. Merlin clutches him closer, fingers twisting and yanking as Arthur bites down. Teeth working his flesh, sucking it red, making Merlin keen above.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, hands dropping to cup Arthur’s face guiding him back so their lips meet again. It’s too much too fast but Merlin’s body spikes with desire and Arthur knows somehow, he gets it and a hand settles on Merlin’s thigh fingers kneading as they travel further upwards. Arthur’s hand is strong and warm and it carries him over until he can’t keep quiet any longer and a shower of urging profanities spill from his lips.

“How did I know you’d be even chattier during sex?” Arthur breathes against his mouth and Merlin smirks into it. He flicks his tongue over Arthur’s top lip and presses his body closer, urging Arthur’s hand as it finally reaches his zip and begins to pull down.

 

“Merlin? Are you—oh!”

“Gwen!” Merlin breaks away, wet lips tingling as the cold air hits them. Arthur smiles bashfully, burrowing his head into Merlin’s shoulder. “Hold it! The door locks behind you.”

She quickly catches herself and makes sure to prop the door open with her leg. “My lord have you two been stuck up here the whole time?”

Arthur rubs his thumb over the soft side on Merlin’s wrist and yes, they may have been stranded on this roof for nearly an hour but… “It hasn’t been all that bad.”

Arthur drops a kiss to the side of Merlin’s neck and even from here Merlin can see Gwen’s cheeks begin to pink.

“I’ll leave you two to…it. But hurry back. I’ve had to ask Lance to mind the cloakroom whilst I looked for you.” She mumbles, flustered and about to hurry out when she spins around and finds the allusive brick, wedging it between the door.

“I should get back.” Merlin sighs; running his hand down Arthur’s back, slipping up under his jacket and shirt so he can drag nails along skin. He’s reluctant to let go. This is way beyond animal attraction now. It’s as though they’re tethered; that whatever is happening tonight, whatever desire that tugs them together all started a long time ago. Call it fate or serendipity; destiny even…

Arthur peppers Merlin’s jaw with light kisses, along his cheekbones until he meets his lips. The heat of it burns right through Merlin’s body, warming him to his toes.

Arthur eventually draws back; eyes alight as the last stray fireworks spark off in the distance.

“So about this coat shag pile?”

 

_-fin-_

 


End file.
